Pomp and Circumstance
by Jassperr
Summary: Arthur hates these events but hates them even more when a certain irritating neighbour of his turns up unexpectedly. Or could that, perhaps, help liven things up a bit? FrUK. Smut. Other characters make appearances.
1. Chapter 1

Set in the mid 1800s or so this is just a little thing about pirate England (because he is my favourite England) and France having a bit of fun.

* * *

Shadowed woodland streamed past the window as the carriage rattled on. Arthur's vision shuddered with the glass pane his forehead rested against, the clattering of it in its frame blocking out the droning voice of the man next to him.

"Sir, are you listening to me?" his nasal tone was hard to ignore when it took on that nagging inflection and so, reluctantly, the nation peeled his head from the cold surface to look his escort in the eye.

"Who's going to be there?" he answered the question with one of his own.

Rolling his eyes, deep set within his wrinkled face, the younger man's contempt for the representative clear. To be fair, said nation felt the same way.

"Of course, Austria and the other Germanics, they are hosting. I believe Russia and his sisters are to make an appearance, therefore some of the Baltics may as well. I expect you to speak with all of them," he listed, that grating voice really getting on Arthur's nerves.

"What about officials?" he asked through gritted teeth.

The other nonchalantly removed his glasses to polish them with his folded handkerchief, "you need not worry about them, Sir, that is what I am here for," he muttered.

"Well why did I even need to come if I'm not here for politics?" Arthur demanded, irritation mounting.

Calmly, condescendingly, the government official spoke, replacing his glasses, without so much as looking in his direction.

"You are here to socialise, to dance and to apologise for not being in attendance at the last four world meetings. Do not think your absence has gone unnoticed."

"I think you'll find I was away discovering and conquering new territories for my queen an-" the nation began to rant but was interrupted.

"Need I not remind you, my Lord, that your duty to queen and country is as much in the board room as it is elsewhere and one duty must not overshadow another." The disrespectful sneer placed on the title Arthur had earned made the blood on his veins heat up like a fire was lit beneath him.

However, opening his mouth to retort, the indignant nation was met with a stern, bespectacled glare, and so, sat back in his seat with a resigned huff.

How dare this man, whose name he didn't even know, suggest he was neglecting his duties. He worked harder than anyone to build, to improve his already great land. Gaining power was surely his priority in this time of relative peace, while he was the strongest he had ever been. There was no time for ridiculous parties, not when there were new worlds to take.

Nevertheless, he supposed, being the empire he was, it was important to show his face occasionally, even if it was just for chit chat. Still, he did not appreciate being forced into it by his bloody meddling government.

Placing his chin in his palm, the British representative went back to staring blankly at the rolling Austrian countryside. It wasn't dissimilar to his own, as was much of Europe, but something in it felt different. Like wearing someone else's shoes.

After a short while, the warm lights of an estate floated into view and Artur watched, with a sense of dread, as the hovering orbs took formation. The architecture of Austria was something he admired, with structures grand and sweeping that yet managed to have such delicate artistry. Ahead of them, the building they quickly approached was no exception, its perfect symmetry coming across as meticulous as the man who inhabited it. The aristocratic air it held making his nose to wrinkle, euphoniously, in derision. A large front garden of perfectly trimmed bushes and trees reflected the anal manner of the place.

As they approached, it was made evident that they were late as dozens of sets of carriage tracks scored the entranceway. Ornate, iron gates pulled open to let them through and the vehicle came to a halt parallel to the grand double doors. Before Arthur could reach to open the door, a hand grasped his arm firmly.

"I have heard about your recent behaviour," the old git warned, "and you are not to cause a spectacle, do you understand?"

Narrowing his eyes back, the personification yanked his arm away.

"You don't command me," he growled.

The politician's gaze was chillingly bureaucratic as he sat calmly.

"In my opinion, the nations are an outdated tradition and nothing more. You are to do as we say."

A bolt of ice ran through Arthur's chest, his face heating up in anger.

"Is that a threat?" he hissed.

All he received in return was that same cool glare, beady eyes magnified through their metal frames.

The door to his side of the carriage was opened for him as he remained in a heated war between looks.

"Shall we?" the arrogant consort nodded at the open door.

Hatred stirring inside him, the nation slid from his seat and exited the carriage, being joined by his attendant a moment later and walking in silence together up the steps to the mansion.

Heavy doors creaked open onto the inviting warmth and the two Englishmen were ushered to the main hall. A harmony of strings echoed throughout the corridors, muffled by numerous tapestries and curtains, the distortion making them sound off key. Beside him, the other man nattered about musts and must nots as they walked but he actively ignored them. He couldn't care in the slightest how this evening went.

Eventually, they reached the ballroom, a pompous pit of festering grandeur, and were greeted by the master of all things ostentatious himself.

"Good evening, gentlemen. I hope I find you well," welcomed Roderich, curl bouncing in a way that made Arthur wish he had brought his cutlass.

"Evening, Roderich. I'm well. And you?" the unenthusiastic guest drawled, extending a hand.

The aristocratic nation eyed his outstretched limb with a look of thinly masked disdain and shook it with a grip like limp lettuce. Whatever the correct greeting in this part of Europe was, Arthur couldn't remember it and did not care to, especially if it was that kissing thing.

"I am well also, but we have missed you at our meetings recently."

That was a lie. The damn, self-centred prick probably hadn't noticed he wasn't there. No one even knew why he came to those meetings when he wasn't doing anything relevant to the rest of the world. However, he could feel a politician's glare on him, and so smiled with tight lips.

"Yes, I apologise. I was seeing to other business," he spoke with forced politeness.

Arthur lost interest as the Germanic nation rambled off about something, leading them through the middle of the room. Servers with trays of Champaign wandered, bored, around the clusters of people that had formed. Gladly taking a glass from one that came to them, Arthur downed it before anyone had noticed then took another to give his hands something to do.

"…and that's why I must find a new housekeeper," he heard the Austrian finish off a story he hadn't listened to as they stopped walking.

"Oh, yes, of course," he faked with ease.

Looking in the direction of the orchestra, Roderich gave a disgusted snort.

"I must see to the music," he announced, "excuse me."

Giving a stiff bow, he walked away with the posture of a wooden plank, curl bobbing uncontrollably. The Englishmen had to hold in a snorted laugh, he truly was an absurd excuse for a nation.

Silence fell with the scratch of disturbed instruments and a moment later a new piece began, Roderich now playing conductor. Taking a sip from the delicate, crystal flute, Arthur surveyed the room. Billowing dresses swished in time with the music, the smell of women's perfume overpowering. A dozen couples twirled in the latest fashionable dance while others stood to the side, gossiping, or sharing polite conversation.

"I see Russia over in the corner. Why don't you start with him," the leech of a man suggested, not a suggestion but an order.

Not wishing to speak to his current company a moment longer, Arthur glanced at him a moment before making his way over to the other nation that stood with his two sisters, isolated from anyone else.

The trio was out of place, antisocial even. He couldn't really blame them, though, what with the political issues they faced. It was surprising they were even invited as those such as Austria tended to see them as outcasts, an unfair label in Arthur's opinion as he himself had worn it before.

On approaching, Ivan was the first to see him, a childish look of pleasure spreading across his face. Whether it was genuine or not was impossible to tell with that man, perhaps the reason so many were wary of him, but Arthur had nothing to feel worried about.

"Privet, Arthur, so good to see you," the taller man spoke, raising his own glass in greeting, the older woman smiling warmly and the younger remaining expressionless.

"Good evening, Ivan. How are you?" he asked cordially.

"I am well, and yourself? We have not seen you in some time, we have missed your presence."

Arthur knew he was only being friendly but he scoffed, taking a deep drink from his glass to numb the mundanity of their exchanges.

"No, you haven't," he muttered.

"Well, no, I have not but I prefer you to many who attend so I noticed you were not there," he continued to smile placidly.

The honesty was appreciated and rather amusing, coaxing the Brit's lips to twitch upward. They were not close, far from it, but much of their royalty was interlocked through various relations and so they ended up speaking more frequently than most. Come to think of it, they probably had more in common with each other than with anyone else there. However, this did not mean they had much to talk about, as was apparent when both fell silent after their formalities.

As one song ended, another began. A waltz, this time. More couples bustled onto the floor, bowing and beginning to circle, the sound of fabrics brushing against one another and the clacking of shoes increasing tenfold.

"You know, Natalia has been looking to practice her waltz and I am not much for the dancing," the Russian spoke for the smaller girl. "Maybe you would allow her the chance?"

Trying to think of an excuse, Natalia stepped forward and made her way out to where the rest of the guests danced without waiting for his response, not leaving Arthur with much of a choice.

"That is very kind of you, thank you," Ivan said, still with the same grin, to which the other relented.

Swallowing the rest of his drink, he placed the empty glass on a nearby table and followed his partner. They took their positions, his hand on her firm waist, hers resting like a feather on his shoulder, and they began to step in time together.

"You look lovely this evening," he complimented, not sure whether he preferred awkward conversation or awkward silence.

"My thanks," her accent managed to make the words harsh, almost an attack.

"The weather is pleasant," he tried again.

"Mild for the winter," she replied with the same tone as before.

With the blunt replies he received, Arthur assumed she was comfortable in silence, something that suited him just fine.

Natalia's violet eyes stared up through thick lashes as strikingly white as the hair that streamed down her back. Contrast with the black silk of her gown she was a haunting picture of gaunt beauty, enough to take one's breath away, but Arthur could never find her truly appealing. Not to say she wasn't stunning, with her face as perfect as a porcelain doll, but everything about her was too stern. Her eyes contained no light behind their glassy surface, her dancing was precise but mechanical.

Despite being roughly the same height, they managed to make it through the whole dance without making eye contact and Arthur all but sighed in relief when it was over. He wasn't a terrible dancer, he was actually quite graceful, but, dear God, it made him feel like a twat. Bowing again to the straight-faced woman, who gave a rigid curtsey in return, the British nation was eager to leave the floor, however, before he could do so, a breathy voice behind him spoke.

"Would you care to dance?" asked the tiny Liechtenstinian girl, her bottle green eyes staring up like she was terrified of him.

Surely it was impossible to say no to her puppy dog look, not to mention a steely looking Swiss man glowered at them from the corner.

"Of course, my dear," the reluctant Brit smiled warmly, taking her fragile hand.

Again, he swept onto the floor with is new partner. Holding her, Arthur was scared of snapping her dainty midriff in two. Her giggle was sickeningly sweet honey that dribbled from her mouth in unending bouts as they spun. She began to talk about something but Arthur was barely able to catch a word she said over the music as her voice was so high and timid, nodding every now and then to feign attention. Dancing with her was more like dragging a damp cloth around than dancing, and a very frilly cloth at that, her body covered in pink bows and ribbons in a ridiculous fashion. Over to one side, the politician that stared in their direction raised his glass with a smile of approval that only made Arthur hate his guts all the more. Listening to the girl's incessant chatter, the disgruntled Brit subconsciously compared the two women he had danced with, not sure if he'd rather an emotionless statue or a dormouse that never shut up. Nothing against them, he knew they were both highly respectable ladies, but events like this seemed to bring out the worst in people.

The spinning was beginning to make Arthur dizzy and he was relieved when the music quietened to show it was the end of another piece. He bowed once more while the infantile girl before him ducked a curtsey, puffy lace engulfing her, and then skipped away. Standing still momentarily, the island nation allowed his eyes to regain focus so he might find his way off the floor in a straight line. However, in doing this he left himself open to attack from behind.

"Enjoying yourself?" a third, easily recognisable, female voice lilted, purposefully making him jump.

"Well the night just improved immensely," Arthur smiled for the first time that evening as he about faced to see his old friend.

Elizabetta tutted humorously, but her expression was warm and genuine. "Stop it, you old charmer, you'll get me in trouble," she joked.

"Have you not missed me?" the Englishman asked, suavely jesting.

The mischievous grin that was never far off the emerald eyed woman's lips crept out without much persuasion as she held out a fair hand for the other to take. "Like the winter misses the sun," she quipped, as witty as ever.

Although Arthur was ready to sit down he was happy to spend a few moments in private conversation with the Hungarian woman, and so, took the extended hand and allowed himself to be led out once again.

"How are you finding it?" she asked, already knowing the answer.

"I can think of things I would rather be doing," the other replied honestly, casting a glance over the hall.

Frowning in mock offense, Elizabetta pouted her lips in an endearing way. "I put a lot of effort into this evening, you know. You should be more appreciative."

They began to move in their own dance, not paying attention to what everyone else was doing, as was usually the case with the two of them. Arthur didn't mind being led, too lazy himself to put in the work, and stepped alongside his partner's movements with ease.

"I thought your dear Roderich had planned tonight," Arthur was semi sarcastic in speaking about the Austrian but didn't want to offend his friend and so was careful in how far he could take it.

A sigh escaped the brunette woman, her eyes rolling without her command. "You know what he is like," she muttered, "his priorities are not as…cohesive as they should be."

Arthur gave a snorted laugh but stifled it instantly at the look he was given, however, on the two pairs of green eyes meeting, the laughter escaped them both, loud enough for heads to turn in their direction.

"And you call yourself a gentleman," Elizabetta scolded gently.

"I don't believe I ever gave myself the title," the pirate smirked, devilishly, "nor do I intend to live up to it." He could have sworn, though it may have been a trick of the candle light, that her cheeks grew a shade pinker in an innocent blush.

Arthur could easily have fallen for a woman like Eliza and had thought on it many times. There was a spark to her, absent in others of high society he had met. So carefree with a vivacity in everything she did and a face sweet as blossom to match. Although, in his mind, they may have made a handsome match, Arthur knew genuine friendship was too precious to squander on the premise of lude fantasies and so would never act on his thoughts. That and, of course, coming between her and her current political ally in any way could jeopardise the prosperous state of the continent.

Clearing her throat, the subtle blush faded, the Hungarian brought up a subject she knew the other would be happy to talk about. "So, what of your adorable little colonies? We hardly hear anything from you these days."

"Everything seems to be going well at present," Arthur had to be mindful not to come across as arrogant, "a promising future."

"Good, I am glad," Elizabetta complimented, segwaying into the thing she had been wanting to say. "Speaking of not hearing from you, a certain neighbour of yours has been asking of your whereabouts."

"What do you- oh," Arthur's lip curled in distain, "what does that prick want?"

Slightly amused by his reaction, Elizabetta continued, "he only asked if we had heard from you and I told him no, that is all."

"That's all?" the Brit asked, raising a heavy eyebrow.

Catching his eye, Eliza made a face the other recognised and took a hissing breath in before exhaling a long "Well…"

"God damn you, Lizzy," Arthur's unimpressed face showed he knew what was coming.

"It just sort of slipped through in conversation, I couldn't not invite him, I'm sorry," she moped with her most innocent face.

Shaking his head, Arthur narrowed his eyes in frustration at the mere thought of the obnoxious Frenchman.

"Well, that's just perfect," he complained, "exactly what I needed to complete the night."

Rolling her eyes, the Germanic woman took on a tone of motherly scolding. "To be honest, Arthur, we have all been wondering. You go galivanting off for months at a time without a word to your friends," again, she pouted, but this time with a hint of genuine hurt, "it is quite rude, you know."

A twinge of guilt tweaked at the Brit at her neglected expression and his irritation dissipated. He would never mean to upset her like that.

"I'm sorry, Liz, I didn't think you would worry," he apologised with sincerity, "but that twat is not my friend and, therefore, does not need to be enquiring about me. And, furthermore, you should not be giving him that information."

His stern look went ignored by the other who looked over his shoulder to the entrance of the hall with a smirking grin stretching across her cherry pink lips.

"Too late," she sang, triumphantly beaming.

"Oh God," Arthur muttered, knowing what that leer was for.

Discretely glancing back in the direction of the door he saw what he had expected as the flouncing figure waltzed in, instantly schmoozing his way through the crowd.

Elizabetta chuckled lightly. "And what are you two fighting about at the moment?" she asked in amusement.

Keeping his back to the door, Arthur tried to hide himself so as not to be detected by his stalker. "The fact that he's French and I'm not," he answered.

With a sigh, the other shook her head in a display of exasperation but understood nonetheless.

"You boys," she breathed.

From the other end of the sizeable hall there came a shattering crash, disturbing the tranquillity of the room, followed by frantic, Austrian screeching, as a path cleared for the irrational host, making his way toward the offending mishap. Both nations stopped moving to watch, Arthur keeping in hysterics at the shade of red the screaming pianist had gone, Eliza rather disgruntled at the unfolding situation.

Her shoulders sagging in resignation, she let her hands slip from Arthur's shoulders with an apologetic smile. "I should make sure my husband does not murder a member of staff," she half joked, "find me before you leave."

"I will," Arthur promised, her demanding look turning to a sweet giggle as she turned and walked briskly to her partner's aid.

The green bustle she wore disappeared in with the crowd and the British nation smiled to himself. They were a seemingly mismatched pair but as long as his friend was happy he wouldn't say a word.

His human shield gone, he needed to find somewhere to lie low so the two men that were seemingly obsessed with him couldn't track him down. Somewhere he could sit and drink his way through the night seemed the most appealing option and so, acquiring his third beverage, he discretely slipped through the loitering crowd to a table, partly covered by a velvet curtain.

Dropping down into the plush seat with a huff of relief to be away from all those ghastly people, Arthur gazed out the window into the walled garden of the palace while he sipped his drink. A full, winter moon glowed soft white over the neatly kept blooms, as though the hard work of the gardeners should be seen at all times but this was not what he looked at as his own reflection blocked his view. Nose wrinkling in disgust at the mirrored image that copied him, Arthur couldn't help but hate what he was faced with. That silk shirt with shining buttons, the jacket that cost more than his average citizen's yearly salary, the shoes he could barely walk in. That wasn't him.

Deciding he had faced enough of the night sober, the sour Englishman drank the rest of his glass' contents in one gulp then pulled a metal flask from his jacket pocket. He had pre-empted the need for rum before he had left and was grateful he had, the familiar burn a comfort, reminding him of his crew mates and his poor ship still docked at the royal harbour, being ransacked by the navy, no doubt. A shiver ran down his spine at the thought.

Leaning back into his seat, the nation allowed himself to relax slightly, now out of view. He looked through the ceiling height window at the darkened landscape and sighed in boredom, his breath fogging up the glass like a wedding veil. Wiping it away with his sleeve he saw in the reflection that he was no longer alone and cringed as an arm leant on the back of his chair, purring crooning in a French accent, smooth as cream. "Naughty boy. Why do you hide from me?"

* * *

I promise it will get dirtier but this is romance not straight up smut, just keep that in mind because it won't be utterly filthy I just wanted to be safe with the rating, sorry if I mislead anyone. Without breaking this into chapters it would look really long and tedious to read so I thought it better to break it up in some way but it's not going to be long, like two parts probably. I love writing stuff about different time periods so please let me know what you think. Thanks for reading xx


	2. Chapter 2

A waft of pungent perfume assaulted Arthur's nose as he sat glaring at the intruder's reflection in the glass.

"As much as I would love to simply ignore you I know that I will not be left in peace until I acknowledge your presence," he made his displeasure be known through his biting tone, slowly turning around as he spoke with a face like a cat in a thunderstorm, "so what the hell do you want from me?"

Francis frowned, placing a hand over his heart in a melodramatic manner, "Mon cher, why do you attack me so?"

The Englishman continued to glower, eyes dead with contempt, "I'm not in the mood, Francis," he warned.

"Not in the mood to treat me like a human being?" the French nation asked, raising a slender eyebrow.

"Is that what you're trying to be?" Arthur countered with another swig from his flask.

Wrinkling his nose as he caught the smell of liquor on the other's breath, Francis frowned in disapproval.

"What, in God's name, are you drinking, Arthur?"

"Real alcohol," the nation replied, as though what he was consuming didn't smell like death incarnate. "You still haven't answered my question."

"What do I want from you?" he received a look from his reluctant companion that urged him to answer. Pulling a chair over from the closest table, Francis sat opposite the other man, looking him in the eye despite the abhorrence held for him there. "To know that you are not rotting away in an opium den or deserted on an island or at the bottom of the ocean," he shook his head, his frown turning to one of earnest concern, "I wanted to make sure you were alright."

Arthur scoffed dismissively, "Why is that any of your business?"

Seemingly taken aback by the attitude he was receiving, the older man shook his head again in confusion, "Because I care about you," he said like it was obvious.

Again, his reply was the same unconcerned sound emitted from the other's lips as he fastened his flask and tucked it into his pocket, looking through the window like he'd rather be out there.

"What is wrong with you tonight?" Francis asked, frankly, feeling somewhat rejected by the man he considered his friend. They were not currently at war and had no real reason to mistreat each other and so such a cold reception had not been expected.

"What's wrong with me?" Arthur repeated, looking round with eyebrows raised, "What's wrong with everyone here? They actually enjoy this shit? There's better things to be doing, you know," he continued to complain rather petulantly, frustration radiating from him.

"Don't you raise those caterpillars at me," the larger nation lectured, having had enough of this unjust treatment, "and that is no reason to be so unkind to me. I came here out of concern for you, I have not heard from you in months, I simply wished to make sure you were safe and you taunt me so," he made sure to emphasise how persecuted he felt, knowing he could guilt Arthur into feeling bad if he hit the right balance of indignance and hurt.

Sure enough, his tricked worked, as the other nation's expression wavered in self-reflection, seeming to realise he had been overly uncaring in his anger. With a deep exhale, he came back to himself, putting aside how he felt about the whole situation and attempted to begin the night anew.

"Sorry," he mumbled remorsefully, having now offended two of his friends in less than an hour, "you know how I hate these events."

"You do not disguise it well," Francis retorted sarcastically. "It is good to see you."

A moment of silence until Arthur conceded, "You too. It's been a while."

Smiling to himself at the now pleasant tone they shared, Francis turned the conversation onto the man he had been longing to see. "I hear you have been doing rather well for yourself," he remarked, wanting something to talk about.

However, Arthur saw through his questioning tone, "You already know everything I could tell you, don't force me into small talk like everyone else."

"Excuse me for my manners," Francis snorted hoitily, "what happened to yours?"

Kissing his teeth and pulling out the flask, once more, the Englishman slumped down further in his chair, boredom turning to restlessness. "Must have left them oversea somewhere," he drawled, raising the container to his lips to have it snatched from his hand by an irate Frenchman.

"I am not dragging your lifeless body home at the end of the night," he lectured, screwing the top back on pointedly.

"You won't have to," Arthur replied, spying his shadow gliding across the room like a ghoul, eyes fixed on him, "I've got a vulture ready to pick it clean."

Francis followed his line of view to a cluster of officials, catching how one continually flicked his gaze between his own conversation and theirs.

"Awh, did they make you bring a chaperone in case you misbehaved?" he teased with a goading expression.

"Piss off," the empire retorted, short-temperedly, "he dragged me here against my will. Said I was 'neglecting my duties' and I'm 'not to cause a spectacle'." He mimicked the tone of the man he held such hatred for, mockingly, but made sure he was not noticed sending a vicious glare his way when said man turned around to check on him.

Chuckling softly behind his slim fingers, Francis spoke in a chiding tone. "So, this is the dreaded pirate, Arthur Kirkland? Hiding from his governess behind the curtains."

"I said piss off, wanker," the other growled, narrowing his eyes at his associate.

"Captain Kirkland," the chastising man continued in the same fashion, "all dressed up and ready for the ball."

"Shut up, damn frog!" the British nation raised his voice, loud enough that the person whose attention he was trying to avoid looked around on hearing him, causing him to shrink back into the corner.

Jarring laughter came from the man to his side at his expense and he felt his cheeks heat up with embarrassment.

"I only tease, mon cherie," Francis trilled, still snickering at his display. Never one to let things go, Arthur shot him a look to show his resentment before sitting up straight, to try and reclaim some of his dignity, again.

In the hum of the ongoing evening the chords of the orchestra changed to a tune, quite noticeably, livelier than the usual dirge. Watching out over the shining, marble floor, Francis' foot tapped in time with the rhythm as they remained quiet.

"Dance with me?" the French nation broke their stillness, glancing over to his companion.

Frowning in return, Arthur looked back. "No," he replied, bluntly.

"Why not?" Francis sulked, "You used to."

Again, looking over at his keeper, the island nation sighed, "I can't."

"I see," the older of the two went back to mocking, "the minister's little puppet has his orders."

"You're here too," Arthur muttered, snarkily.

"Of my own free will," the other returned, flipping his hair, tied with a sky-blue ribbon, behind his shoulder.

Huffing in reply, the British representative was about to take advantage of a passing caterer, whose tray was still full, but on noticing the suited blood-worm had inched closer, thought better of it. However, with a roll of his eyes, Francis took the initiative to liven things up, standing to take two glasses of sparkling alcohol then, upon consideration, stated, "Leave the tray."

The servant boy obliged and walked away as Francis took up a glass. On seeing Arthur's shocked expression, he nodded at the tray they had acquired.

"Take one," he instructed, "your mood is depressing me and if I do not have to care for you I do not have to care how drunk you get."

Still, apprehension rested on the Brit's heavy brow.

"What are you afraid of?" the Frenchman tempted him, "That old fool?" he gestured his glass in the direction of the politician, "That's not the Arthur I know."

A moment of contemplation passed across Arthur's face then, taking up a glass, he griped, "You're a bad influence."

Beaming, Francis clinked his glass against his friends and both emptied their drinks.

"Can you still drink like you used to?" he baited.

"Pft," the Englishman exclaimed, "the question is can you keep up?"

An hour passed and the tray was near finished, two glasses left, reflecting the candlelight. Both men, having had several centuries of practice in the art of binge drinking, found the effects of their antics were muted but, by this point, the world seemed to be getting a little fuzzier. The pair sat by the window still, giggling like naughty children as they observed the night's events.

"Oh, dear God, has she got fruit in her hair?" Arthur doubled over with laughter.

"It is called fashion," Francis defended, sniggering all the same.

Tears forming in the corners of his eyes, the English nation held one of the two final glasses, hand swaying slightly as he lounged leisurely, now enjoying the night in his present company and state. "It's called a fruit bowl and she should get one if she's that concerned about her damn pears."

Gasping laughter came from the Frenchman at his comments as he held his side, shaking. "Arthur, stop! That is the Duchess of Bavaria!"

"And I'm the British bloody Empire, I can say what I like," Arthur boasted, sipping from the flute with bitten, rose-red lips. Francis focused on them as he continued to speak, how they barely moved when he spoke about certain people, like they weren't worth his energy, how they pulled back into a slanted smirk when amused. They were puffy, dry, and rugged.

"Francis?"

Blinking out of his daydream, the man addressed focused his sight to realise the smaller country was staring back, questioningly.

"Sorry, mon cher, I was lost in the music," he murmured, leaning his chin in his hand, letting his eyes flit up to the nation's tanned face for a moment, then back out to the room.

"Or in some dark corner of your perverted mind," The Englishman remarked jestingly, to which his friend glanced over sideways with a lurid grin.

"Would not you like to know."

"I could do without the nightmares," he continued to joke.

"So you say," Francis spoke with a provocative inflection, slowly lifting his leg to run his foot up along the other's inner seam as one might do beneath the dinner table to a lover, "but I think you might like it," he whispered, now having reached his victim's upper thigh, too high for comfort.

Springing from his seat with quite the clatter, Arthur narrowed his eyes at his attacker, half playful. "You disgusting man!" he squawked, catching Francis' eye which gleamed with mirthful intent.

The corners of his lips tilting upward, he readied a response in his head but stopped when out from the blurry edge of his sight he saw he had incurred the wrath of the man who had been watching them all evening as he now marched towards them at a brisk pace.

"Shit," Arthur exclaimed in a hushed curse.

"What?" Francis asked before seeing the shadow loom nearer. "Uh oh," he droned at the Brit's worried face, "caught in the act."

Stood trying to see an escape rout of some kind, he couldn't see past the wall of dancers. A smile spreading across his face, the island nation extended a hand down to his companion.

"Dance with me," he beamed, eyes wide with mischief.

Equally as devilish eyes looked back with a quirked brow. "I thought you were 'not to cause a spectacle'," Francis reiterated, a smirk curling his mouth.

"I've already pissed him off, what difference will it make," Arthur laughed, taking the hand that was outstretched to him and pulling the other to his feet hurriedly.

Stumbling with the force of their movements, the pair were propelled onto the floor just in time to miss the man that approached them, laughing to themselves as they made it into the, already dancing, crowd.

The refrain swelled as they took up their positions, falling into each other's hold naturally, and began to move perfectly in time, every step in accordance with the other's. Bumping into other couples as they spun, only drawing more attention to themselves, neither seemed to notice they were causing quite the display as they garnered suspicious glances from those near to them that spread outward in a ripple effect.

"People are staring, Arthur," Francis lilted, adjusting his hold on his partner's waste.

"I can't imagine why," mused the empire, sardonically, "and why do you get lead?"

"Why are letting me?" the other purred, to which a pair of fir green eyes glanced up through thick lashes, catching the chandelier's glare in a way that betrayed the elation behind them.

Weaving their way between the other guest's in an intricate dance of their own, the whispers grew louder, into full blown gossip, as some tittered and other's gasped, appalled. For a moment Arthur caught the seething glower of his governmental foe, flaunting a wicked grin over his partner's shoulder. They grew breathless, mouths open with panting smiles. The dance they formed was an outdated one that they had used to dance in the village fairs of their ancient countries, around the maypoles in the open streets with the commoners.

A circle of space opened around them, people stopping to stare like they were some bizarre oddity, as the two nations maintained their own world through unbreaking eye contact. All there was to them was the music and the moment. Both of which, unfortunately, ceased too soon, as the piece they knew changed again and they were left to realise they stood as the sole focus of the room, surrounded by shocked faces, including a relentless English minister.

Standing statuesque, seeing the intrigue they had provoked, Francis looked over to Arthur, about to ask what they should do. He was met with a Cheshire cat's smile as his arm was gripped by the smaller man.

"Come on," Arthur excitedly spurred, before Francis was being pulled through the crowd towards the back of the hall.

Tripping and apologising as they knocked passed disgruntled guests, the pair made it to the hallway, not stopping as they faltered their way up the stairs and found themselves on a balcony overlooking the garden. Raucous laughter escaped them, gradually petering away into wheezing chuckles.

Francis doubled over, one hand against the wall, trying to catch his breath, while Arthur walked over to the edge of the balcony, leaning on the low wall to look vacantly over the land which sprawled beyond the manor. The icy, October air was sobering, open fields gleamed in the soft moonlight. Watching the silhouetted form move with a certain masculine grace, the Frenchman stood upright, his shoulder propped against the doorframe.

There was something different about him that Francis couldn't quite explain. A lightness to his demeanour, a lack of seriousness, yet still an intensity that left him hanging on his every syllable. He held himself with purpose and, as he spun to face his friend, the expression behind his eyes was one of childlike enjoyment for life.

"How do you not get bored?" the English nation implored, shaking his head, "Just stuck here, pandering to all their bloody pomp and circumstance?"

"If I remember correctly, you were doing the same but two hours ago," Francis countered, coming over to join him, resting his hands gently on the railing to look over the landscape.

"But you do it willingly," Arthur scoffed, not quite disgusted but unable to see a perspective other than his own. "I mean, while you're here there are worlds out there, with riches and glory. I can't be the only one who wants them," he slid himself onto the wall so that he sat with his back to the three stories drop behind him.

"The rest of Europe wants what you have, mon cher," Francis mused, feeling the tiniest bit jealous himself.

The sea-faring nation snorted derisively, "The only competition I have is Antonio and that's like pitting a mouse against a tiger."

Francis laughed lightly. "Careful, cherie. Pride cometh before the fall, non? I learned that one the hard way," he warned.

"But where's the fun in that?" Arthur met his eye with a spark in his own, leaning back precariously, "Where's the thrill?" jumping up to stand on his perch, he slunk along the thin beam like a cat through an ally, becoming an embodiment of what he was saying, "Don't you want some danger in your life?"

Smiling up playfully, the French nation faced his friend, folding his arms, "Having you around is danger enough, Arthur, get down from there before you break your neck."

"I would," the other drawled, making an exaggerated face of thought, "but I think I'm done taking orders for tonight."

The man below him simply looked up, raising an eyebrow to which Arthur edged closer to the precipice, disobeying for no other reason than to make him uncomfortable. At this, Francis reached over to grab him by the sleeve, but Arthur was too quick, sliding out of the way and dropping down off the ledge so that Francis grasped nothing but thin air between his fingers.

"You see what I mean?" he asked, slouching over the railing, shoulders hunched, "Where's the challenge?"

Slowly, Francis sauntered over to where he stood, amused by his antics, resting against the rails with his back to the inky sky, standing closer than a respectable man should.

"I like this Arthur," he thought aloud, eyeing the other nation up and down suggestively.

Turning his head to meet the azure gaze, Arthur arched an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"Confidence," Francis replied, his tone lowered to an enticing hum, "it is very…appealing."

Stood face to face, the Englishman inched closer in response.

"I've always been confident," he murmured, chapped lips barely moving.

Their hot breath mingled, creating a misty shroud in the cold air that surrounded them both. Stepping nearer, Arthur placed one leg between Francis', which were spread of their own accord. The taller man let himself slouch slightly so that they were the same height, teeth bared in a lurid grin.

"Cocky, then," he countered, eye contact locked.

Exhaling a laugh, Arthur mirrored the same form of predatory smile. "You can't say it's not warranted," he spoke, suave arrogance dripping from every word.

Close enough to taste the alcohol on each other's tongues, Francis all but whispered, "I like it."

A hairs width away now. Vapour from their liquid breath soft on their cheeks. Gazes flickering between eyes and lips.

The British nation's voice, low and husky, muttered, "There's only ever been one Arthur."

A momentary pause as both men succumbed to what would happen next.

"Then I need only give myself to one man," Francis beckoned, moving the final centimetres, meeting half way as their lips locked in place.

A brief minute of hot lust was conveyed through the encounter then they parted, breathless with need. Staring, cheeks pink with the cold and the heat, their hands entwined and they hurried inside and down the hall. Two hearts raced with wanton excitement as Arthur knocked on the first door they came to.

"We should not," Francis protested feebly.

The room remaining silent, Arthur pushed him gently, but forcefully, against the wooden surface with uncharacteristic passion.

"Give me a reason," he purred, pressing his hips up against the other's so that they ground together. Francis sighed in one deep sound of pleasure as he pressed back. "That's what I thought," the supposed gentleman muttered against his tender neck, attacking it with a kiss.

The door swung inward, sending the pair stumbling into the room. They staggered but managed to stay upright, tangled in an embrace as they moved towards the bed in the centre of the room. Upon reaching it, Arthur took the opportunity to dominate. He urged his lover down onto the mattress and leant over him. Climbing up to straddle him, with no argument, the smaller man began to roughly discard articles of clothing, not caring when buttons went flying.

"That looked expensive," Francis gazed up, tracing his hands down the other's firm sides, barely able to contain himself.

"It was," Arthur replied, tossing his ruined shirt to the floor, wasting no time in doing the same to Francis'.

"Mon dieu! You brute!" the Frenchman squealed in scandalised glee.

"My dear, I will bring you back the finest silks of the orient," the pirate promised, hanging over him with an authority that sent a buzz of ecstasy up his spine, "if you'll shut up and let me have you."

Their conversation ended in the devil's kiss, lecherous and careless, with biting teeth, rough lips, hands roaming wherever it pleased them. Arthur's calloused hands combed through Francis hair, pulling free the ribbon that held it back, letting it spill out of its confine like liquid gold. Moans escaped them both, neither having realised how much they missed each other's touch until this moment.

Fingers scrabbled at the waistbands, their bare chests pressed together not enough. Kicking his legs free from the restraining material, Arthur moved lower down the French nation's torso, peppering his ivory skin with kisses, leering when he heard his breath hitch then caressing the spot that had drawn such a reaction with his lips.

Deciding he had played the charmer for long enough, the smaller man gripped the legs of the other's trousers, yanking them until they were crumpled on the floor alongside the rest of their clothing. He crawled back up, the heat with which their lips met blistering. Francis reached down to fondle his lover, knowing what would elicit the right response. As expected, the Englishman let out a hushed groan, pulling away from their kiss to flip Francis onto his front where he proceeded to sink his teeth into the soft, white neck. A cry of pleasured pain rang throughout the room, sending Arthur over the edge.

They melded together seamlessly, Arthur taking control and Francis shamelessly letting him. Building up a steady rhythm, the island nation nipped at the creamy flesh of his shoulder while he held him at the hips. Whenever a gratified moan or gasp would emit the delicate looking body beneath him, he would speed up the pace only to slow down again to make sure the affair would not end too soon.

"Goddammit," he hissed, his movements unrelenting.

Grabbing the hair that flowed loose around Francis shoulders, he wound it into one thick strand, holding it taught so that the other's head was jerked back, to which Francis let slip a choking groan that caused a thrill through him.

"Merde," Francis cussed between panting breaths.

It had been a long time since he had felt this way. Not that he struggled to find sexual partners, far from it, but the activity itself had become unexciting, mundane even. He had no idea what was causing it, fearing, perhaps, he had lost his touch. While he and Arthur had been intimate many times before there had never been such a carnal desire. Something in his very core yearned for him and him specifically.

Before Francis could become lost in the feeling he felt a hand reach around, stimulating him to the point of euphoria. His eyes screwed shut, he bit down on the bedsheets to keep from screaming, hands in a white knuckled grip, back arched. Just as he almost gave in to bliss, two work weathered hands held him by the waist, spinning him to lie on his back, the body that hovered above him radiating heat, chest heaving and eyes filled to the brim with lust.

Flinging both arms around the sun kissed neck, Francis reached up for their lips to meet once more. Arthur relished in the damp heat of his mouth, moving as fast, as hard as he could, overtaken by a hunger like nothing he had experienced before. In that moment, there was only one thing that could satisfy him.

Francis pressed up into the smaller nation, their bodies synchronised to the second, moving as one. Swells of heat dissipated through the Frenchman's body as he latched onto his lover's lip with his teeth, unable to contain the rasping moans that spilled over. Nails scraping down the Englishman's back, Francis let his head fall back as he lay in motionless, letting satisfaction wash over him.

Seeing the face under him contorted with sheer exhilaration, Arthur left himself no constraints, using the last of his stamina. He bent down to ravish the exposed throat, leaving his mark in the form of a gentle bite on the delicate underside of the French nation's jaw. Face in the crease of the other's neck, Arthur climaxed, gulping for breath through the intensity of the feeling.

A few seconds of stillness while the two lay together panting in the aftermath of their activities, then the smaller nation rolled off to the side, their skin peeling apart like their bodies didn't want to be separated. They continued to enjoy one another's company in silence until Francis spoke first.

"Well," he said conversationally, "we have not done that in a while."

They both turned their heads to look at each other, a brief laugh escaping them simultaneously.

"No, we haven't," Arthur confirmed.

The lust in those viridescent eyes had gone, stripped away to reveal a warmth that surprised Francis. However, he could only observe it for an instant before the man beside him sat up, smoothing back his ruffled hair, then stood and moved away.

Left on the bed, alone, the older nation couldn't help but feel somewhat upset that the night had ended. He sat up, wiping himself with the bed covers, while he watched the other dress. His skin was a shade darker in a healthy glow from time spent out in the elements, hair longer than he usually kept it and coarse after months of salty winds.

"You look well," he complimented, viewing the toned chest that still held a gloss of moisture.

"You've already bedded me, there's no need to be nice," the British man quipped as he pulled on a pair of trousers, not caring if they were his or not, and turned to retrieve his shirt.

"That's a new one," Francis commented, nodding at a scar that stretched from above his hip bone to his waist.

Twisting to look at it, Arthur ran a finger along the length of it. "Waterloo slipped your mind?" he asked.

A smug smile curved the Frenchman's lips. "Not my finest moment overall but I am fairly certain I bested you personally."

"Doesn't count unless you win," the rival nation bragged, moving to stand in front of his companion. "And I think you'll find I got you back," he trailed a hand down Francis' arm, stopping at the ridge of a deep scar and smirking at having proven his point.

"I do not believe it appeared that way as you lay on the floor beneath me," came the witty response, their friendly competitiveness still very much present even when they were not at war.

"Does that mean I won tonight?" Arthur asked sarcastically, shrugging on his shirt.

The older man smiled up with thinly veiled infatuation, "If that would make you happy, mon lapin."

The look he was receiving warmed something in Arthur. Cupping the other's cheeks with both hands, he tilted the pale face upwards for them to kiss again, this time tenderly. Neither wished to part but they did, slowly, savouring the tastes left on their lips.

"You are leaving then?" Francis asked, rising to collect his own belongings, "So soon?"

"I sail from Italy in two days' time," the empire stated, fastening his shirt with the few buttons that hung by a thread, "can't keep my men waiting."

"Where to?"

"I'll tell you once I've been there." Arthur stood watching the slim figure, radiant in the pale iridescence of the moon, and unwittingly felt that same impulsiveness bubbling from inside of him as he had earlier as he thought aloud, "You could come with me, if you'd like."

Raising an eyebrow at the invitation, the French nation let out a slight laugh. "No, mon amour," he declined with an apologetic expression.

"Are you sure?" Arthur urged, "Where's your sense of adventure?"

Again, Francis shook his head. "I cannot go with you, Arthur, my boss would have my head," he objected, "you are an outlaw, you know."

"I like to think myself more of a pioneer," the Englishman mused jokingly, "but fine, suit yourself. You would only get jealous anyway."

His playful simper was met with an identical one.

"Oh really?" Francis called his bluff.

"The ladies can't resist a captain, it's a fact. When I pull out from port they fling themselves into the ocean after me. They beg me not to go," Arthur exaggerated comedically, prompting a laugh from the other.

"I am sure," he drawled.

Both nations now dressed, began to make their way towards the door. "What do you think your boss will have to say about this?" Francis asked, a light smile resting on his lips.

A dismissive sound came from the English nation, "I don't give a shit," he stated outright.

They laughed together as they slunk into the hall, however, on crossing the threshold, a strand of blue on the floor caught Arthur's eye. He reached down to pick up the ribbon, unseen by the man whom it belonged to, tucking it into his pocket then following his friend down to the ballroom.

As they descended the stairs, the noise coming from the main hall was noticeably lesser than before as the party had begun to die down, many guests having left already. Although, this did not stop a hundred pairs of eyes snapping round to stare at the two representatives as they walked in. Acting as though nothing were amiss, together, they made their way over to the hostess of the evening, who regarded them with an expression that tried to appear disapproving but was far too amused to succeed in doing so.

"You two have caused quite the scandal," Elizabetta reprimanded, pointing a finger at both of them in turn.

"Je suis desole," the French nation took the hand that was directed at him, kissing it contritely, "we did not mean to ruin your night."

The Germanic woman barked a laugh, "Ruined? You are the gossip of the country, no one will forget this any time soon and I count that as a success."

"I thoroughly enjoyed myself, Liz. See you again soon," Arthur stepped in to give the goodbye he had promised.

"You had better," she demanded, "I need you both around to liven things up." Stepping closer to embrace her friend she muttered in his ear, "And try not to get killed," before moving away again and smiling sweetly.

"I'm undefeated so far," he mentioned, cockily.

Looking over his shoulder pointedly, Eliza added, "That's not what I meant."

Glancing back, himself, Arthur saw the man they had been running from all night storming over, face drawn out in rage.

"Good luck," Elizabetta sang with a melodious giggle as she left them to the politician's temper.

With a bored expression, Arthur waited for him to reach them, arms folded and his lover by his side.

Coming to an abrupt halt in front of them, the bespectacled man glared, practically shaking with anger, as he spat, "I thought I told you not to cause a spectacle."

"You did," the nation replied coolly.

The other's eyes narrowed further behind their frames, his lips forming a malicious snarl. "Parliament will be hearing of this," he growled as intimidatingly as possible.

Arthur remained uncaring, looking down at the human with unmasked detestation. A low, vindictive chuckle emitted him as he took a step closer, pulling himself up to his full height in a domineering act of power.

"You don't threaten me," he spoke in a tone of superiority, venom in his words, "you are nothing without me. I am the reason my nation is great and I can destroy you if I wish so don't you dare try to threaten me."

The frown on the man's face wavered, he knew he had lost, and he remained silent.

From behind him, Francis sniggered inwardly. Power suited him and he couldn't deny there was something incredibly attractive about it.

Brushing past the politician, the British nation made to exit the hall. "I'm going south, you go back to England without me. Tell them whatever you like," he threw shaded look over his shoulder at the official, who quivered in soundless outrage, "I'd hate for them to miss out on the gossip."

Following closely behind, Francis trailed after the other, both stopping when they reached the grand, double doors. Despite there still being an audience, the moment they shared was theirs alone when Arthur raised a hand to rest on the nape of Francis' hot neck.

"Let's not leave it so long until next time, eh?" his roguish look held a sentimentality that showed he meant what he said.

"Absolutely," the Frenchman replied as they both leant in for an affectionate farewell kiss, their faces remaining close after they separated.

The Englishman's lips parted, subtly, as though he were about to speak but seemed to think better of whatever he had thought to say. They pulled away from one another with a promise in their eyes that there would, without a doubt, be a next time, before Arthur let his hand slip from its hold.

"I won't go running off like that again," he pledged.

Francis shrugged a shoulder, lightly, "As long as you come back, I do not mind," he relented, knowing better than to try and tether him with unkeepable vows.

Flashing a bright grin, the other winked, flirtatiously. "I always do."

Watching as the figure disappeared into the dark of the hallway, left with the chattering mouths of those surrounding him, Francis felt in him an odd mixture of neglect and anticipation. Smiling coyly to himself, like a smitten schoolgirl, he bathed in the sensation, warmed by it like a blazing fire. He ignored the crowd around him, leaving the hall to its speculation, as he imagined the day their promise was proven not to be empty.

* * *

Aboard his vessel, salty air licking at the sails and an unending expanse of opportunity ahead of him, Arthur closed his eyes in a moment of serenity. Although his mind was focused on the task at hand his heart was set on something else.

He held the thin length of ribbon between his fingers, blue as the eyes of the man it reminded him of, even smelling faintly of the perfume he wore. Holding to his lips, breathing in the unique scent, his eyelids flicked open to observe the white crested peaks of his canvas, ready to make the next stroke of his worldly masterpiece. The wind causing the satin to dance in his grip, Arthur lowered it from his face and tied it around the hilt of his sword.

"Prepare to set sale," the captain's orders rang throughout the port, carried by the breeze as though it encouraged them on their voyage.

Sunlight mellow on his cheeks, the English nation felt the ship sway beneath his feet, taking him to his next conqest.

* * *

Reviews welcome, thanks for reading.


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